It was probably unwise to leave Django sated with sandwich and tea for too long, for experience had taught him that the man could fall asleep at the drop of a hat. But Becky needed to know her son was safe – and the bush was no place to be during an electric storm.

Ben hurried across the clearing, his loping stride eating up the distance as he headed for the jumble of basalt known to the locals as Eagle’s Head. The black rocks balanced precariously against each other, emerging from the surrounding mulga scrub and spinifex like a giant prehistoric bird preparing for flight. They looked as if the merest puff of wind would bring them tumbling to the forest floor, but they’d been there for thousands of years, carved by the elements to stand sentinel over the dreaming place the local tribe called Namardol – Wedge-tailed Eagle.

The army had taught him well, and Ben carefully made his way down through the rocks, his boots making no noise as he tested each foothold and avoided disturbing the shale, which could come loose and give him away. Slowly easing over the last boulder, he stepped silently on to the ledge, effectively blocking off the boys’ escape.

Both boys were so absorbed in their play they didn’t notice him. Barefoot, in scruffy shirts and shorts that revealed skinned knees and elbows, they were of similar height, with the gangly limbs and soft faces of childhood. Danny’s paler skin had browned in the sun until he was almost the same dark caramel as Billy – who’d inherited his colouring from an itinerant, redheaded drover, name and whereabouts unknown.

Billy Blue was the first to see him, and he nudged Danny before scrambling to his feet. ‘We done nothing wrong,’ he said defensively, his wild mop of red hair glinting in the sun as his amber eyes darted back and forth in search of another escape route.

‘I know that, mate,’ Ben said. ‘But it’s time to go home now.’

Danny’s hands were clenched at his sides as he eyed Ben belligerently through the lick of brown hair that flopped over his forehead. ‘You can’t tell us what to do.’

‘I just have,’ he replied mildly. ‘There’s a nasty storm coming and your mothers want you home.’

‘I don’t wanna go home,’ Danny objected, ‘and you’re not my father. I don’t have to listen to you.’

Ben regarded the boy thoughtfully, noting the defiant stance and tilt of his chin. But his brown eyes held the hurt he was keeping at bay, and Ben knew that for all his bluff and bluster, Danny was just a small boy struggling to deal with what life had thrown at him. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he drawled, ‘but I’m in charge up here, and like it or not, you can’t stay.’